


we were in screaming color

by okaynextcrisis



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaynextcrisis/pseuds/okaynextcrisis
Summary: Instead of dying on New Apsolon, Tahl lives, and an ending becomes a beginning.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When all the world's a stage (and all the actors can't find the exit)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10401657) by [Valmouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth). 



> I read Valmouth's Qui and Tahl post-leaving the order fic, and my fragile little shipper heart could NOT let go. It's a sickness. I'm literally in the middle of finals right now, and I'm writing this instead. Send help. And coffee.
> 
> The first chapter sort of follows the end of The Death of Hope, except for anything that I didn't like. Which...was everything. That's why I'm writing this fic.
> 
> Title borrowed from Taylor Swift. (I know. I know. A SICKNESS I SAY.)

_She’s sitting up when he enters her room, her perfect posture and clear eyes making a mockery of the hospital bed beneath her, the tubing in her forearm, the steady, reassuring lights of the monitors._

_Her smile is wry. “You look terrible.”_

_It’s an old joke between them, one that always makes him smile but now brings a flush of tears to his eyes, tears he is grateful she cannot see. He comes closer, taking her hand, her brown skin warm and glowing, no longer the pale, clammy fingers of the woman too weak to walk, to hold up her head. Her eyes are free of their dark lenses, the green and gold shining, once again, with life, with health, with their shared future, stretching out before them._

_He raises her knuckles to his lips, heedless of who might see. “We don’t all have your knack for getting by without our beauty sleep--”_

A monitor screams behind the double doors, and Qui-Gon Jinn’s head jerks out of his hands, his heart pounding. He hears rapid movement and feels the tension of the Force signatures in the hospital growing tighter--or perhaps that’s just his chest.

He has been waiting for exactly one hundred and eighty-two minutes, here on a faded upholstered chair in a waiting room in a civilian hospital, nothing like the soft, soothing stillness of the Temple’s healing wing. 

Obi-Wan sits beside him, finally fallen silent. Qui-Gon is deeply grateful for his presence...and he wishes he were alone. He cannot, just now, be the Master who demonstrates calm and acceptance, not when he is a man who can barely hold onto his control.

The doors that bar the waiting room from the treatment rooms require a staff badge to open, but surely a judicious Force push could drive the doors straight off their hinges. He could be in her room and by her side in seconds…

He grips his hands together, leaning his elbows on his knees, trying to quell the rising nausea climbing his throat.

She will be fine. She will be fine because she has to be fine.

He has never felt less like a Jedi Master than he does in this moment, the merest slip of control preventing bile from spilling out on his boots, his mind cosseted with fantasies of a recovery that he knows--

She will be fine. She has survived worse. They both have. They will come through this, too.

He reaches out to touch her Force presence with his, to remind her that he is here, that she is not alone on this graveyard of a planet…

But her presence is barely tangible, a ghostly echo of its usual vibrant luster. Once, years ago, a mine they were investigating for industrial sabotage collapsed, trapping him under tons of rock. Tahl located him in minutes, without tools, without equipment. _“You’re so loud,” she’d sighed, after they’d pulled him, dusty and bruised and grateful, from the wreckage. “I couldn’t lose you if I tried.”_

She is in the next room, now, and he can barely hear her.

He gets up again, his long legs pacing the stuffy, claustrophobic space, trying to drive the hot panic from his lungs. 

Obi-Wan watches him, blue eyes full of compassion...and more than a little confusion. 

She will be fine. She will be fine. She will be fine--

In times of danger, his heightened senses have always slowed everything down, letting him process the scene at lightning speed, react precious split seconds before events have unfolded.

So he doesn’t hear the doors open, see the doctor striding towards him, hear his name being called.

He takes in: the anxiety in the doctor’s rapid pulse, the scent of sanitizer still on her palms, the reluctant slide of her eyes away from his, the deliberate return of her gaze.

“How is she?” he interrupts, before the doctor can speak.

“The drug that was used on her was a short-term paralytic,” the doctor says, as though she has said it many times before, as though she is reciting it off a med school datapad. “It isn’t dangerous with one dose, but when it is administered repeatedly, in order to achieve extended paralysis--”

“I don’t need a pharmacology lesson,” Qui-Gon grits out, to Obi-Wan’s clear astonishment. “Tell me.”

The doctor sighs. “Her heart is failing. Her kidneys have shut down. She’s bleeding internally from most of her organs. Her lungs are too damaged to process oxygen, and…”

He can’t hear it, so he doesn’t. He strides past Obi-Wan, past the doctor, her mouth still moving, her voice deafened by the pounding in his ears, his head, his chest.

The doctors can say what they want, think what they want. They don’t know Tahl like he does. No one ever has. No one knows what she’s capable of, the power of that fierce determination, that focused will.

He finds her room without consciously seeking it, drawn to her presence like steel to a magnet, a moth to a flame. No one stops him as he enters her room and closes the door behind him.

She is motionless in the bed, her chest so still he can barely detect the rise and fall in the dim light. He eases himself onto the mattress to sit beside her, his hip brushing hers, taking her hand, the one without the tubes and wires, in both of his.

Her eyes stay closed, but one corner of her mouth lifts, a hollow imitation of her familiar smile.

He squeezes her hand, gently, his throat momentarily too tight for words. “I’m here,” he manages. “I’m right here.”

There’s the softest brush against his mind, the delicate beat of butterfly wings.

When he first arrived at the Temple, he was almost two, already tall and clumsy and awkward with others. The Jedi students conversed and played among themselves; he kept to himself. And then Tahl came to the Temple, her words already easy and fluid, and he wanted, more than he had ever wanted anything, for her to notice him, and under the warmth of her attention, he found his words at last.

He has never, not once, seen her too weak to speak. 

Her skin is so cold. 

Automatically, as they have so many times--crash-landed on a frozen wasteland, floating together on wreckage, marooned on an ocean planet--he reaches out with the Force to share their warmth between them.

Against his thoughts, there is the barest shake of her head. _Too late, my love._

“Don’t talk like that.” He cups her cool check, his calloused thumb resting against a vein, no longer throbbing beneath his touch. “We made a deal, you and I, remember?”

He feels her smile against his thoughts, the ache of her soft regret. 

“We go on together,” he reminds her, trying to keep his voice level, calm, for her sake. “You promised, remember? I know you’re the expert here on legal precedent and binding agreements, but even I am sure that a promise is a promise.”

A whisper of a touch against his brow, a light, last kiss. _I’ll never leave you._

Her presence is so faint now he can barely feel her. 

“Stay with me,” he says, tightening his grip on her hand, a pleading, desperate tone in his voice that he has never heard before. “Stay with me, Tahl, we can fix this, I can fix this…”

He has survived wars, famine, shipwreck, plague, but he has never felt terror like this, icy panic shooting through his veins, when there is no response from her, not a blink, not the slightest stirring of her mind against his.

Her chest rises, slowly, painfully, then falls, more a collapse than an exhale.

He reaches out, calling up the Force from the living beings around them, the air, the stars, the patch of wilted grass outside the window. With every shred of his strength, every particle of his focus, he holds onto her presence, anchoring it with light, with love, with everything that he is and everything that he has.

It isn’t enough.

She’s falling, and he’s not fast enough to catch her, not strong enough to hold her. She slips through his grasp, her presence fading to air, to smoke, to ash. Her spirit, so long tangled with his, pulls away, leaving a wound, raw and open.

Against the clasp of his fingers, the beat of her blood goes still and silent.

For half a heartbeat, he lives in a world without her.

And then, against everything he has ever been taught, against his own instinct for survival, against doubt, against judgement: he jumps after her.  
  
 ****


	2. Chapter 2

He is inside her, and she is inside him, and together they are nowhere. 

Galaxies are birthed. Stars die. The universe spirals with them, for them, despite them.

_ A waterfall: splashing, laughing, saying  _ forever _ like their eight-year-old selves know what it means, like it will always be this easy, like the world can be bent to their will, their wants, their small, bright hopes. _

The fire melts away flesh, blood, bone. Flames dance and burn and purify. 

_ A flash of light from the planet below: the ship bucks and dives, sending them rushing through the atmosphere in a nauseating nose-dive.  _

_ “Controls are gone,” he announces, voice clipped, as he struggles to right the ship, the ground looming up to swallow them whole, to send them back to particulate matter, dust and ashes and atoms once more. _

_ He can feel the anxiety of the Padawans behind them, their rapid heartbeats and shallow inhales. _

_ “Calm,” she reminds them all, a steady, reassuring presence by his side. “Relax.” _

_ They reach out, as they have done so many times before, strength combining, coupling, spiking, sending the smoking ship safely to the ground-- _

White-hot heat surrounds them, incinerates them, burns away boundaries, edges, negative space. 

_ “And then you got  _ stuck _ ,” she laughs, as though it’s funny now, which he supposes it--almost--is.  _

_ “In retrospect,” Qui-Gon admits, with as much dignity as he can muster, “it’s possible that our plan for your retraction should not have depended solely on my ability to move swiftly through a small space.” _

_ Obi-Wan doesn’t laugh; his mouth holds a firm line, and his eyes shine with innocence, which is worse. _

_ “The Sanbiiti have a custom,” Tahl informs him. “Where the accused witch---you know, me--gets to purify her soul by confessing all of her sins before her execution. Which is by poison, firing squad, and airlock--” _

_ “That sounds like overkill,” Obi-Wan manages to say with a straight face. _

_ Qui-Gon sips his tea to hide his smile. _

_ “So to speak,” Tahl agrees. “But they wanted to be thorough, and I admire that, although possibly in this case from a more theoretical than a practical standpoint...so I’m confessing, and  _ confessing:  _ to the Sith Wars, the assassination of the first Chancellor of the Republic, the Dark Side plots of Ulic Qel-Droma--” _

_ “And you’re still stuck in the ventilation shaft overhead?” Obi-Wan asks him, blue eyes dancing in a way Qui-Gon has not seen since the carnage of their last mission. _

_ “Like a womp rat in a cage,” Qui-Gon allows. _

_ “So the shaft is creaking wildly overhead, and I’m confessing louder and louder--” _

_ “I particularly enjoyed your account of using your magical powers to suck the life force from planetary rulers to fuel your plans for galactic domination,” he offers. _

_ She smiles, something private and layered in the gesture that he can’t help but believe is only for him. “You don’t know everything about me, Qui-Gon Jinn.” _

She is the fire, and he is the fire, and together they burn.

_ He leaves the Temple with his Padawan, and he comes back alone. _

_ He speaks to no one. He sees no one. Nothing but the cold hatred in Xanatos’s eyes, blinding as the sun glinting off a sheet of ice, as he burns his father’s ring into his cheek.  _

_ He doesn’t hear the knock on the door of his quarters, and when he does, he ignores it. _

_ If he hadn’t had his shields clamped down so tight, he might have known that the person on the other side wasn’t inclined to take no for an answer. _

_ The door flies open with a flick of nimble fingers, and she eases herself into his quarters and onto the floor in front of him. _

_ He avoids her eyes, and the cloying pity he knows they will hold.  _

_ His voice is rough, heavy. “I want to be alone.”  _

_ Her fingers reach out and entwine with his. “You are free to pretend I’m not here, then.” _

_ He cannot bear her gentle touch, the feel of her knowing eyes. He is not the man she thinks she knows, not anymore. The man she cares for would never have failed his Padawan so deeply, so entirely.  _

_ He pulls away, or tries to, but her grip holds him tight.  _

_ He lets out an aggravated breath. “I know how you look forward to an opportunity to unburden me of my feelings and rescue me from myself, but in this moment, Tahl, I could not be less inclined to indulge you.” _

_ They are the cruelest words he has ever said to her, and he knows she knows it, too. _

_ Her voice is soft, and it burns him with shame like alcohol stinging a fresh wound. “How long has it been since you slept?” _

_ “Telos.” He clears his throat. “Before.” _

_ She stands, pulling him with her, and he doesn’t resist. “Let’s get you into bed.” _

_ “I can’t.”  _

_ The words feel clumsy, childish. But he cannot face sleep, the nightmares he knows are coming, the claustrophobia of his thoughts. Not even if it makes her opinion of him sink even lower. _

_ He deserves to lose her, too. _

_ Strong hands guide his shoulders, warm against the chill of the night. She eases him into bed, spreading the blanket over him like a child. The thin mattress dips as she crawls in beside him, her body warm against his back in the narrow bed. _

_ He turns, to protest-- _

_ But when his eyes meet the steady compassion in hers, his own fill with tears. _

_ She holds him, his shudders, his ragged sobs, until he fades, finally, into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. _

_ She is gone by the morning.  _

_ Never, not once, do they mention this night again. _

The fire devours them, and what is left is something new, something that is more than the sum of its parts. The heat fades into something safe and heavy, like the comforting weight of a worn quilt, the soft pressure of a warm bath.

_ Sunlight streams through the open window above their bed, bringing him gently to consciousness.  _

_ “Morning,” he mumbles sleepily into the softness of her neck. _

_ She must have been awake already, because she turns easily in his arms, pressing her whole body, and then her lips, firmly against his. _

_ “Are you sure?” she asks, as though their internal clocks have ever been anything less than accurate. “If it were morning, we’d have to get up…” _

_ Gently, reveling in the sound of her soft giggle, he flips them over, so that her body is beneath his. “You know, I think you might be right.” _

_ Her nimble fingers are already inside his shirt. “I always am.” _

….but that’s not quite right, is it? Is it happening now, or is it yet to come?

The darkness surrounding them thins, a light above appearing. They hesitate...and then, as one, they choose. 

They choose light, and they choose life.

_ “You are my heart.” _

_ Her eyes are hidden behind dark lenses, but there is no mistaking the tears that shine in them, the color rising in her face. She reaches out one hand, her touch sure, to brush his cheek, his jaw, his lips. “I did not know it until this moment. Or maybe I did. Maybe I’ve known it for some time.” _

_ Hands join, palm to palm, calloused fingers finding softness. _

_ They are Jedi, and they are Masters, and they have everything left to figure out. But in this moment, there is nothing of which he has ever been more sure, no code to which he has ever been more devout. _

_ “Whatever decision we make, we will be together.” _

They gasp, and open their eyes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the flashbacks are my interpretation of canon events, and some i made up! i'm a wild woman like that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay: laptop problems, life problems, blah blah blah. i hope you all enjoy the chapter!

He wakes to a profound ache of separation, of severance. He feels small, suddenly, or perhaps overlarge, the vastness of space and spirit once again given fragile mortal form. _Crude matter_ , Master Yoda would say. His muscles burn as though he has just fought off seven Togorian pirates; his bones feel sharp and heavy inside his skin. He is no longer sure, exactly, where he is, except that he knows he has come a long, long way to get here.

His head, heavy with fatigue, is pillowed in softness. He considers, abstractly, almost philosophically, the idea of motion, and then recommits himself to stillness. 

Sensation comes to him slowly; it takes him a heartbeat to recognize the soothing feel of delicate fingers in the tangle of his hair, of a strong hand clasped in his. He feels, as though for the first time, the weight of his body, the gentle effort of each cycle of breath.

He reaches out--no, he realizes, with a realization that is a shock because it isn’t. He reaches _in_. 

It’s the sound of her laughter, the feel of calloused fingers against his, the sizzle of two lightsabers engaging as they fight back to back...the swell of the Force as they summon it, united, the softness of lips against his...it’s a part of him now, just as he knows, can feel, that he is a part of her.

With a nearly heroic effort, he manages to raise his face from her abdomen, just enough to glimpse Tahl, looking as weary as he feels. 

The soft rise and fall beneath him is her breathing, and she is alive. They are both alive. 

There is no need to enquire about how she is feeling, to gaze at the monitors he can hear, distantly, counting off her heart rate, her oxygen saturation levels, her blood pressure. He can feel her now, closer than he ever has before, more intimately, as through her mind has taken up residence in a quiet corner of his.

He will never, ever, regret the actions he took to keep her here. He knows that in his bones.

He smiles into her warmth, and he sinks back into sleep.

* * *

The world intrudes all too soon, all bright lights and harsh sounds and too many beings, too many signatures, too many thoughts.

“Master?”

His Padawan’s voice sounds unsure, younger than his sixteen years, more like the twelve-year-old Qui-Gon first met, brimming with doubts and anxieties. 

Qui-Gon’s gut contracts; with guilt or shame or apprehension, he isn’t sure.

Obi-Wan must have felt it, Qui-Gon realizes too late. Of course he did. With the titanic effort he and Tahl worked here, every Force-sensitive in the sector will have noticed. 

Even back on Coruscant, the Council...the Council may have felt it as well.

The knot in his stomach tightens; he breathes out his anxieties, as he has always done. He expels all thoughts of the Council and the future from his consciousness to focus on the present moment, taking stock of its needs and opportunities.

Tahl is still in the hospital bed. His large hands still grip hers like a life raft. His feet are on the hard tile floor, but his body must have collapsed on hers; his head rests between her hips. Obi-Wan stands in the doorway, his tidy hair ruffled by anxious hands into ginger spikes. Behind him, medical staff in sickly green scrubs lurk, equally fascinated and disturbed. 

Qui-Gon raises himself up, painfully, releasing Tahl’s fingers to brace his hands against the thin mattress. He misses the contact immediately; he can feel that she does, as well. He shifts his weight and reaches out to her again.

Obi-Wan approaches the bed slowly, almost shyly, his blue eyes wide and uncomprehending. “What did you do?” he whispers. 

Qui-Gon cannot tell if Obi-Wan is asking him, or Tahl, or perhaps the Force itself.

“Something reckless,” Tahl answers, her voice like a rusted vibroblade. She clears her throat. “Something foolish.”

She is scolding him. Qui-Gon’s smile in return is rapturous. 

Obi-Wan shifts his weight between his feet, as he has not done since he was thirteen years old. “Are you all right?” he asks Tahl. 

It does not escape Qui-Gon’s notice that Obi-Wan seems to be addressing himself only to Tahl, glancing at his Master only swiftly, almost secretively. 

“Never been better,” she says, and maybe it’s his head so recently in her lap, his hands in hers, the knowledge of what they’ve shared between them, but for the first time in years, a faint flush rises on Qui-Gon’s rough cheeks. 

The doctors, at last, make their way cautiously into the room, as though the railed bed holds a hungry draigon, and not two weary Jedi Masters. One man checks the monitors, shaking his head in disbelief; a woman reaches out a reluctant hand to place two fingers against Tahl’s wrist.

They are only trying to help, and Qui-Gon knows it; still, he feels their intrusion acutely, his feelings through the Force raw and tender. With a flick of his hand, he silences the monitors.

The silence between them is not silence, like signal lights between ships, their understanding perfect.

Tahl’s nimble fingers pull the medical tape from her forearm, deftly removing the IV needle. 

Obi-Wan, never comfortable with needles under the best of circumstances, clears his throat. The medical staff, apparently not comfortable with Jedi, retreat. Qui-Gon cannot entirely blame any of them. 

“Is there anything I can do, Master?”

Qui-Gon meets Obi-Wan’s eyes, and finds something like trepidation there.

“No, Padawan,” he says, as gently as he can. “I don’t believe so.”

“The Council contacted me,” Obi-Wan says at last. “While you were...asleep.” There’s a hint of an emphasis on the word, as though he is using it as a euphemism. “One of the Masters will be here shortly.” He hesitates. “Bant will be coming, as well.”

Qui-Gon does not have to look at Tahl to feel her flush of shame. Bant, the Padawan she left behind. 

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he says, softly. 

He does not know how long he and Tahl were unconscious: seconds, days? With a fast ship, the Council could be descending upon them at any moment. It will not be pleasant. What he has done here will not be easily swept aside, even if he wanted it to be.

 _Is_ that what he wants?

Master Jinn should know what to say next, what to do. He should get up from this bed, make plans, take deliberate action. He should reassure his apprentice.

Instead, Qui-Gon releases his aching arms, and lets his body drift back to Tahl’s, his eyes drifting closed as well.

* * *

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

It takes him a heartbeat to remember where he is, and exactly why that isn’t funny.

The room is dim now, and they are alone again, hip to hip in the narrow bed. He wonders how this was allowed, and then he wonders who would have had the courage to stop them.

It will be different, of course, when the Council arrives.

“Obi-Wan--” he begins.

“I sent him off to get some sleep.” 

He knows she can feel his nod as they shift closer together, arms and legs finding curves and hollows in which to rest. He lets his fingers drift across the warm bare skin of her arm. Her head rests against his chest, her dark hair soft against the stubble of his cheek.

They are much better now, the both of them; Jedi healing is powerful.

Particularly when not accomplished alone.

“The Council will be here soon,” Tahl says at last. 

He kisses her knuckles instead of answering.

She lets out a breath. “Qui-Gon…”

“I know what you want me to say,” he answers. It’s easier, somehow, to say it in the dark. He wonders if this is how Tahl feels, all her words sent out into a darkened void.

“Oh?” She sounds amused. He can picture the quirk of her lips. “That will make the conversation go faster, then. What do I want you to say?”

He breathes out, slowly, into the dark. “That we are Jedi, and we have certain responsibilities, and that when the Council comes, we both know what we have to do.”

Her voice is soft, close to his ear. “And what’s that?”

The words are hard to say, razor-sharp in his mouth. “What we’ve always done before.”

Her sigh makes his chest ache. “And what do _you_ want to say?”

They are up against the edge of something that cannot be undone, words that cannot be unsaid. He does not have the courage to say them, and he cannot bear to leave them unvoiced.

“I can’t let them take you away from me,” he says at last, voice rough with naked vulnerability of the admission.

It takes her a long time to respond, so long that he thinks she has fallen asleep. “Do you trust me?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Never,” he replies, confused.

“Then I need you to trust me that I won’t let that happen.”

It isn’t anywhere near that easy, and they both know it. But he nods, and the tiniest part of his tension relaxes. 

Perhaps, in this moment of miracles, he can allow himself to imagine another.

Outside, through the tiny window, he can see the sun begin to lift above the horizon, the sky turning pink and gold. He tightens his grip on her, alive and warm and breathing for this new day. 

“If the Council’s coming, I know one thing,” Tahl says at last. 

He turns his head to consider her face, solemn in the dawn light. “What?”

“We are going to face them freshly showered,” she informs him. “Help me up.”

“Are you sure you’re steady enough to stand on your own?” he asks, concerned. Jedi healing or no, there are physical realities that cannot be ignored...

Her smile makes his pulse quicken. “Who said I’d be alone?”

He stares at her, her meaning dawning on him, perhaps more slowly than it should have. “Tahl…”

“I’ve embarrassed you,” she says, clearly delighted. “You formed an indissoluble bond between our spirits, but seeing me naked is what, too much? Too intimate?”

“I’m not embarrassed,” he argues gruffly. 

She reaches up to brush his face with her fingertips. “You’re _blushing_ ,” she announces, her wicked smile widening.

He scoops her up in his arms and carries her to the small fresher. “I’ll show you who’s embarrassed,” he mumbles.

“How romantic,” she coos.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there be sexytimes ahead. double warning: i'm a smut virgin, be gentle!

_The steam from the shower fogs the mirror in the small bathroom, and Qui-Gon is grateful. At least he can't see the flush on his own face._

_From the smile on her face as her fingertips trace his jaw, Tahl can feel the heat anyway._

_There is no hiding from each other, not anymore._

* * *

Mace Windu is a man of few words, particularly when meting out the Council's justice. He sweeps into the med center, taking in Tahl's fragile form, Obi-Wan's averted gaze, Qui-Gon's absence of remorse, in one penetrating glance.

"Master Qui-Gon," he says, in a tone that is, without a doubt, an issued order. "We need to speak privately, now."

Qui-Gon dips his head in acknowledgment, getting to his feet. He has gone against the Council's wishes before; this is not the first such meeting to which he has been summarily invited. 

This time, Tahl rises with him. "What Qui-Gon did, he didn't do alone."

Obi-Wan doesn't suck in his breath audibly, but in the Force, it is a similar echo. He, for once, does not insist on accompanying his Master. 

It is a certain act of loyalty, Qui-Gon knows. His Padawan is afraid that Mace will ask questions to which there are only incriminating answers.

Qui-Gon takes Tahl's arm as they follow Mace to small waiting room. For once, she does not insist that she doesn't need him.

They both know Qui-Gon is the one who is grateful for her presence.

She slips her arm out from his as she eases into a set next to him. Mace is clearly discomfited by the display of unity.

He finally breaks the silence. "The situation is...regrettable."

"Regrettable?" Qui-Gon echoes, half-rising from his seat. Tahl stills him with a hand on his arm.

Mace Windu's sharp eyes do not miss the gesture. He folds his arms and leans back in the seat opposite them.

Now, Mace's voice is cold. "Don't spar with me, Qui-Gon," he says, pointing a strong finger. "I am here as a courtesy for all your years of service. There are some on the Council who wanted you expelled on the spot. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"What we've done," Tahl corrects, her voice soft.

* * *

_Boots are shed easily, bare feet finding the cool tile, finding each other. Lightsabers are placed side by side, out of the water but close enough to reach in case of danger._

_Qui-Gon can't help but feel that the real danger is in here, in this close space, in the distance between millennia of Jedi teaching and the rush of his calloused fingers against her warm, bare skin._

_But that choice has already been made, that bell that cannot be unrung tolling steadily._

_He unwraps her tunic, easing it over the shadows of bruises still marking her smooth brown skin. His heart constricts at the damage done to her, to the cruelty he couldn't spare her, very nearly could not even save her from._

_No one will ever hurt her again, he vows. No matter what he has to do to prevent it._

_But Tahl's thoughts, for once, are very much in the present._ _He feels her certainty, her sureness, shaded by the aching regret he'd felt back in that hospital room. There is so little time. There was very nearly none at all._

_He feels her fingers inside his tunics, seeking lower, making him gasp._

* * *

Mace inhales and exhales, a complete cycle of breath before he responds. "I do not think you can wrest the credit for mistakes made while you were dead."

She lifts a delicate eyebrow. "As the only person in this room who's died recently, I think that's my distinction to make."

Mace pinches the bridge of his nose. "Neither of you appear to be grasping how serious this is."

* * *

_He lets himself trace her cheek, the tiny movement as huge, as flagrant, as a declaration of war. His touch moves lower, along the curve of her neck, the softness beneath._

_He feels...unexpectedly shy._

_Then Tahl's lips find his, and all he feels is home._

* * *

"I take full responsibility for the actions I took to save Master Tahl's life," Qui-Gon says at last. 

Mace nods, seemingly grateful for the concession. He does not want to be in this room, either. "In that case..."

"I would do it again in a second," Qui-Gon interrupts.

Mace sighs, and there's something like pity in his dark eyes. "Then may the Force have mercy on you." He rises. "You are both recalled to the Temple immediately for the judgement of the full Council."

* * *

_Under the water, it feels like another world. Shampoo is shared between cupped palms, soap held in hands exploring new territories, permissions sought and granted. He wants to kiss every inch of her soft skin, map every curve of her body._

_The water washes them both clean, pain and horror swirling away down the drain. There is no fear, no death, no shame._

_...and then her long legs wrap around his waist._

_Their hips join, finding their own rhythm, steps to a dance it seems they have both known all their lives._

_In all the decades he has chafed against the restrictions of the Code, yearned for freedom, he never thought he'd find it here._

* * *

Outside the room, Obi-Wan is waiting. "Master?"

Tahl discreetly takes her leave.

"Gather your things," Qui-Gon answers. "We are returning to the Temple."

Obi-Wan tilts his head, confused. "But...what about the mission?"

It is hard, in this moment, to meet his Padawan's eyes. "The Council will be sending another team."

Obi-Wan's jaw tightens when he realizes what his Master is saying...and what he isn't. "I see."

There is compassion in his eyes, and that is what burns. "Master...I know you only did what you had to do. The Council will understand that."

Qui-Gon feels his face flush. "Perhaps."

* * *

_When they stumble out of the bathroom, he feels brand-new, baptized in a new religion, wedded to a new god._

* * *

He is spilling over with joy, and his stomach is clenched in shame.

It is starting to dawn on him that this, now, is how he will feel forever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year!! have some....angsty porn?

Stars blur past in a dizzying rush, lightspeed carrying them inexorably into the future.

The starfighter is small, and fast; it won't be long until they're back at the Temple, in front of the Council.

Qui-Gon wishes he knew what he plans to say.

The awkwardness is a tangible presence, like a figure seated among them in the ship's small common room. Obi-Wan had offered to assist Mace with the piloting, but the Jedi Master waved him away, citing Council business. Now the Padawan has his lightsaber components spread out before him, as he meticulously cleans each part. 

Obi-Wan's oft-repeated hatred of this chore speaks to how badly he needs something to occupy his hands...and his eyes.

Eye contact between Master and Padawan, once as familiar as breathing, has become something of an endangered species in the past few days.

Tahl's blank gaze rests somewhere in the space between them, but she, too, seems reluctant to break the silence. 

He is alone with the two people in the universe who know him best, and neither are them are meeting his eyes.

“I’m surprised, Master,” Obi-Wan says at last.

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath. He would not have chosen this moment, now, for this conversation, but he will not lie or evade.

He waits, chest tight. “Padawan?”

“I’m surprised this is the first time the Council has personally had to bring us back from a mission.” Obi-Wan goes on placidly polishing his kyber crystal. “I always knew it would happen; I can’t imagine what has slowed them down.”

Tahl’s laughter bubbles up from her chest. Obi-Wan doesn’t smile, but Qui-Gon can feel his quiet satisfaction.

”Padawan,” he says repressively, even as a small smile tugs at his lips.

Tahl leans forward. “Did he ever tell you about the time his Master had to rescue us from the spice mines of Kessel?”

”I’m not sure...” Qui-Gon begins.

Obi-Wan sets down his buffing cloth. “Must have slipped his mind.”

Tahl smiles. “Well, he was blacked out for quite a bit of our escape."

"I was not 'blacked out,'" Qui-Gon corrects, because if they're going to tell this unfortunate story, they're going to do it right, "I was suffering from the hallucinogenic effects of the bites from the glitterstim spiders that _someone_ assured me were a myth."

Tahl waves this off. "I had to be wrong _once_."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows lift. "And Master Dooku was there to witness this singular event?"

Tahl winces at the memory. "He yelled all the way from the Outer Rim to the Core. At one point I remember making you promise that if it came to being rescued by him again, we'd just die."

Obi-Wan chokes out a startled laugh.

Tahl's smile widens at the sound. "Your Master was full of venom and nearly comatose, but I swear, he held out his hand and we shook on it."

"A vow I hold dear to this day," Qui-Gon says formally, even though he remembers not a moment of this.

For the first time since that hospital room on New Apsolon, his Padawan meets his eyes with something other than dread. 

Why can’t it always be like this?

* * *

_The dark presses in on her, heavy on her chest, in her lungs._

_She is a Jedi Master, and will not cry, will not scream...even if she could. Even if she had the power to will her muscles into that small obedience._

_It wouldn't matter. Inside this device, no one could hear her._

_In the beginning, she tried to overpower it. She believed that an opportunity for escape would present itself. If not escape from the Absolutes, then freedom from this device. If not freedom, then a full breath of air in her lungs._

_Now, she knows death is her only way out...and she knows it is close. Even trapped, even helpless, she is a Jedi Master: she can feel her body failing, each dose of the paralytic making it harder to draw breath._

_It won't be long now._

_She can feel her captor drawing closer, even though she cannot see or hear him. She feels the needle moving towards her, feels the pinch as it enters her, the burning as the drug moves through her veins._

_She chokes on the thick darkness, alone._

Qui-Gon gasps awake.

He is not aware of moving; he only knows that the ship's compact corridors seem to part for him, until the door of her small bunk is closing behind him.

She is still dreaming, and he can feel every moment, every memory.

"Tahl."

He reaches out to brush her shoulder, and she flinches away from his touch, still inside that dream, that device.

He burns with shame. He can't seem to stop failing her.

He leans closer, careful not to touch her. "Tahl, wake up," he says, gently but firmly. "You're safe now."

She gasps, her eyes fluttering open, but he knows it only brings her more darkness.

He eases himself onto the edge of her bunk, wary of coming too close. "You're safe," he repeats.

He can feel her panic, her pounding heartbeat, as though it is inside his own chest. He can feel her burning shame, to be seen this way, even by him...especially by him.

He knows she can feel his bottomless guilt: he is the one who failed her, who let her go, who could not find her in time.

She sits up, taking the deep, cleansing breaths they learned together as Younglings. Slowly, he reaches out to rest his hand on her knee.

Her hands cup his face, drawing him to her, her lips unerringly finding his in the dark.

She is safe, they are safe...but he can't feel it, not now, with her dream, her _memory_ , still darkening his mind, his heart.

Her arms wrap around his neck, bring him closer. He cannot tell if it is her heart that is pounding against his chest, or his against hers, but the fierce rhythm calls out its own need, howls its own demands.

Her strong thighs straddle his hips, and he can feel himself growing against her. He has never felt desire like this, _need_ like this. 

She bites down on his lip when he enters her.

He moans, and he feels, in his mind, the cool press of her finger against his lips. He has never been so close, so much a part of her. There is no him, no her; just one being, burning like the sun.

* * *

In the darkness, he makes his way back to his bunk, moving silently as a ghost through the starfighter's confines. He wanted to stay, to drift off beside her, to wake up with her still safe in his arms...

But while they may have shattered the Code together, being discovered at it by the Council would not be... _ideal_.

Qui-Gon Jinn, relentless maverick, whispered Gray Jedi, lifetime thorn in the Council's side, is in enough trouble already.

Through a crack in the door, he sees his Padawan sitting cross-legged on his bunk, meditating. Though the lights are dimmed, and Obi-Wan's eyes are closed, he has no doubt that his Padawan can sense his presence.

He should say something.

Instead, he pretends he doesn't see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made a cover for this fic because i am extra! i can't figure out how to upload it here but if you're interested: https://okaynextcrisis.tumblr.com/image/189979557821

Bant is waiting for them on the docking platform, her pale pink hands gripping her upper arms, her robes fluttering wildly in the night breeze. 

_It's colder here_ , Qui-Gon thinks they disembark from the ship, and somehow, he suddenly knows that technically, Coruscant's average temperature is five degrees warmer than New Apsolon's.

Bare hours ago, he and Tahl were cosseted beneath blankets together, long limbs intertwined, warm and safe and one. Now, they walk down the ramp in an almost staggered formation, movements stilted, risking no inadvertent contact, no accidental touch. Qui-Gon isn't sure if it's out of respect, or fear, or mere habit.

Bant breaks protocol by nearly running her Master, her webbed hands finding Tahl's, her soft voice bubbling over with emotion: _are you all right, they told me you might be dead, I wanted to be with you, Master WIndu said it wasn't my place to come, that a "situation" had arisen..._

Qui-Gon's heart aches.

He is not, he should have remembered, the only one who loves her.

And at least he was allowed to be at her side.

He slows his pace to allow them privacy as they move towards the Temple. 

So mentally distant have he and his apprentice become, so unconnected, that Obi-Wan very nearly bumps into him from behind.

They both flush. 

"Master..." Obi-Wan begins.

"Padawan."

Mace's voice from behind them is neither sharp nor gentle. "Your testimony is required now by the Council, Padawan Kenobi. Master Jinn, your presence is expected at first light."

Obi-Wan's eyes flash with alarm; not for himself, Qui-Gon knows.

Mace's posture is formidable, but Obi-Wan, ever loyal, ever obstinate, waits for dismissal from his Master. His Master, who can barely form words, who has no advice for this moment, no wise counsel.

"Be honest, Padawan," he manages, before Obi-Wan is lead away and he is left alone.

* * *

The Temple is different to him now.

Jedi do not gossip, but like any group living and working and eating together, from school children to hardened prisoners, they can't help but see and talk and _know_. Qui-Gon does not have to wonder why more eyes are on his back as he wanders the Temple's vast halls, late into the night.

Obi-Wan is still with the Council--or he has been dismissed, and has chosen not to discuss it with his Master. Qui-Gon cannot blame him. 

Everything is different, from his sense of his own body, to his connection with his apprentice, to the feel of the Force itself. 

He needs a new language, he thinks, to describe it, to explain it to outsiders, to make what is soft and sweet and melted into hard and distinct syllables.

There are no words his fellow Jedi would understand for what he wants, what he is--what he may be--about to do.

He finds her at last in a private meditation chamber, sitting in the dark, cross-legged on the inlaid petal-patterned tile floor.

Once, years ago, she'd scolded him tartly for neglecting to turn on the light in her quarters, for sitting in the dark for nearly an hour. If she had to be in the dark, he remembers thinking, he wanted to be there with her...

When he switches on the dim light, he is astonished to find the silvery tracks of tears marking her cheeks.

She swipes at her face with impatient fingertips. "I thought I was alone, but there's no _alone_ anymore, is there?"

He can't apologize, and so he doesn't, merely sinks to the floor beside her; close enough to touch, wise enough, now, to give her space. He keeps his voice low. "If you're in pain--"

Her laughter, usually a balm to him, is savage. "No, I _am_ pain."

"Tahl--"

"I've been talking to Bant for hours, trying to explain what happened...what's about to happen." She shakes her head, almost shuddering with the memory of it. "Obi-Wan had to go before the Council to give unwilling evidence on our--" she pronounces the word as though it is obscene- " _feelings..."_

She gestures blindly somewhere to his left, but he understands that she means the Temple, the Jedi as a whole. "Can you honestly tell me that there's anything about this that wouldn't be better if I were dead?"

Her words seem to hit him somewhere in the chest. For a moment, he cannot speak; can only try to breathe around the blow.

"Bant would have a new Master already, and I would have given you all the gift of uncomplicated grief as you go forth into the future, and instead I'm here, living and breathing and ruining everything I touch."

For an unspeakable moment, he flashes to visions of vibroblades, of open airlocks, of the lightsaber that she carries at her side, even now.

She is already shaking her head, as though he has made a joke, and a poor one, at that. "Don't be ridiculous. For one thing, I highly doubt that my suicide would have much of a cheering effect on any of you, and for another..." She hesitates. "Qui, it might kill you, have you thought about that?"

He doesn't have to think about it. "If you hurt yourself, it would kill me."

She reaches out to cover his hand with hers. "No, what you did, what _we_ did....I don't think only one of us could survive. If I die, you die."

He doesn't have to think about it. "Finally, some good news."

Tears choke her laughter, or maybe it's laughter that overcomes her tears. 

And they wait, as the night edges into dawn, towards a sunrise only he can see.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually cried a little writing this chapter? so heads up on that i guess. i hope y'all like it??

Qui-Gon Jinn has been called before the Jedi Council more times than he can count, more often than any Jedi in recent memory; he has been questioned, disapproved of, railed against, occasionally censured. 

This should feel familiar.

It doesn't.

He faces the full Council, a solemn ring of grim visages, Tahl at his side, their Padawans half a step behind them. He is not alone. 

But it is his sin that has brought them here, his actions, his _attachment_.

Tahl's face is a mask, deliberately blank in a way it never was before the loss of her sight. If she cannot see the expressions of others, they will not see hers, either.

Obi-Wan, behind him, vibrates almost palpably with tension. He thinks he's shielding, of course; Qui-Gon needs to work with him on that, teach him better...

But he cannot think of that now.

Bant has never been in the Council chamber before. Her wide eyes dart around, trying to take it all in, store facts and faces for later analysis. In this moment, she is so much like her Master that it makes his heart ache.

But he cannot think of that, either.

Mace's strong hands steeple. "You know why you have been summoned here today."

Dawn breaks behind him, almost unbearably beautiful in its purity. It is a fresh day, clean and new, and already he has sullied it with yesterday's mistakes.

It would be so much simpler, he thinks, if he could hold what he and Tahl did to be a _mistake_.

"Yes," Qui-Gon says simply. He will not lie or evade. Not about this. Not now.

He feels the subtlest ripple of relief from the circle. At least they will not be forced to fence with him, to delay the inevitable and painful.

"We understand that the circumstances were difficult," Adi Gallia puts in, her regal bearing making something inside of him burn with shame.

She saved his life, once, and now here she is, forced to speak at what amounts to his disciplinary hearing.

There is no one in this room, Qui-Gon knows, who wants to be here.

He inclines his head in agreement, cautiously grateful. 

"An impulsive choice," Plo Koon offers, his deep voice full of empathy, "one, perhaps, that you came to regret..."

A spike of sick anger emanates from Bant, the softest, gentlest person Qui-Gon knows.

He has done that, too.

"Regret your presence here, no one does, Master Tahl," Yoda answers the unspoken. "But speak to breaches of the Jedi Code, we _must_."

Tahl's voice is clear, with no trace of last night's tears. "I understand."

Of course he tried to argue that this meeting was no place for her; of course he did. Of course he lost.

His Padawan, too, is here against his wishes. _My place is by your side, Master_ , he'd insisted, and Qui-Gon had found his heart too full to formulate an argument.

Obi-Wan is blameless in all of this, a bystander to his Master's unexpected needs and hidden passions. He deserves to be resting up after a difficult mission, stuffing his face in the Temple refectory, laughing with his friends, not standing sentry at the funeral of his Master's reputation. 

If he can do anything for Obi-Wan, for Tahl, for Bant, it is to get this over with quickly, to remove the gauze from the wound in one motion.

"I regret the distress that I have caused," Qui-Gon says, the words sticking in his throat. "But I cannot regret the actions that I took."

The wave of emotion that passes through the circle this time is one of frustration, anger, even sorrow.

Tahl steps forward, and the tension in the circle rises to a pitch that could shatter glass and fracture bones. "The responsibility to mine to share."

He has known her since before he knew anything, and he has never seen her quite like this: the fierceness in those empty green and gold eyes, the protectiveness in that perfect posture, the tension only visible in the slightest rigidity of her fingers. She has saved his life countless times, fought with him back to back, but he has never witnessed such an open, naked display of her... _attachment_.

"The case, that may be," Yoda says at last, almost gently, the finality of his words like a flint striking above a pyre, a life going up in flames.

It is Mace Windu's voice that delivers the blow, mercifully free of sentiment or sympathy. "We recognize your decades of service, and we acknowledge that a bond created through the Force cannot be undone. But there is to be no contact. Master Qui-Gon, you will be sent into the field, and any research needs will be directed to Master Nu in the Archives. Master Tahl, you will go to work in the Archives of the Temple of Eedit on Devaron. There will be no--"

Qui-Gon's voice is bitter, through his lips almost before he has thought the words. "So you're banishing her, for the grievous sin of being alive?"

He feels Obi-Wan's indrawn breath, Tahl's touch on his arm. 

He has gone too far, or maybe he already had.

"No," Mace says, his voice colder than Qui-Gon has ever heard it. "We are seeking to help you both avoid temptation, when clearly you have lost the ability to control yourselves."

"I won't agree to it," Qui-Gon insists. His pulse pounds in his ears, as he imagines Tahl's talents wasted, her brilliance left to dim. "I won't let you send her to languish on some backwater because I fell in love with her."

The gasp that echoes through the circle is not an invisible tremor, but an audible echo. In this exalted chamber, these hallowed walls, Qui-Gon's words are a sacrilege, an obscenity. 

And he does not know if he regrets them.

"Forcing you to remain a member of this Order, we are not," Yoda states calmly. Yoda, who taught Qui-Gon how to use the Force, how to close his eyes and find his own inner truth. "But abide by our judgements, you will."

Is it easier to stay? To let the Council do this thing, excising Tahl from his life like a cancer; to let his days fill with missions and his Padawan, and his nights fill with sleepless regret? Is there courage in that sacrifice? Or would it be simpler to leave, to walk away, to heed the clarion call of his heart? Is there bravery in choosing the unimaginable?

Tahl's fingers find his, and the world shrinks to the two of them. They are seated cross-legged, side by side in the Younglings dormitory; they are under bombardment by blaster fire on a mission. They are exchanging a look in the Temple hanger that aches with what cannot be said; they are entwined, body and soul, coming together in desperate hunger and boundless need.

They are who, and what, they have always been.

Tahl's voice is soft, and as loud as a battle cry. "Then you have made our choice for us."


	8. Chapter 8

"You're wrong."

The first words spoken since aloud the Council slap Qui-Gon full in the face. His hand almost rises to his cheek, floats there for a moment in the air, feeling the heat under his skin.

Bant is gone, her soft-soled boots echoing down the halls as soon as the heavy double doors closed behind them. Tahl sinks to her knees, her hand falling away from his.

"Padawan--"

Obi-Wan whirls around, his braid hitting his shoulder, his cloak a dark waterfall, a brewing storm. He is suddenly not a boy, not an apprentice, but a man, a fellow Jedi. Qui-Gon can see the last of the boyish innocence fall away, see the lines with which he has marked Obi-Wan's heart forever. "Don't call me that. Not anymore."

He will never see him Knighted, Qui-Gon realizes, almost reeling with the weight of the sudden knowledge. He will never proudly cut his braid. He will never welcome him as a full member of the Order. He will never meet his apprentice's apprentice. 

Qui-Gon's voice is no longer steady. "Obi-Wan. I never meant--"

"You did." Obi-Wan is breathing hard now, the way he does after a long training session. The way he never will again, not with Qui-Gon. "You did. You meant it when you went after her. You meant it when you ripped open the very fabric of the Force to keep her here. You _meant_ it when you went to her bed."

The spike of pain in Qui-Gon's chest is so bright, so sharp, that he cannot tell what of it is Tahl's and what is his own. 

Obi-Wan thrusts a finger in their direction: the Master with his hands outstretched, the Master still on her knees. His hands do not shake. "You can do this thing. I can't stop you. But you will regret it for the rest of your life, and you know it."

Then he is gone, too, leaving two Jedi Masters, now simply a man and a woman, alone, and more weary than they have ever been.

Qui-Gon does not realize that he is crying until the calloused tips of Tahl's fingers find the tears, delicately tracing the planes of his face, down his jaw. Silently, she slips her arm through his, and they, too, walk away, fellow soldiers in a battle won at great cost, limping away from a carnage of their own making.

* * *

It takes no time at all to pack their few possessions. Qui-Gon collects his second pair of tunics, his extra boots, his comlink. He has a few credits left over from a past mission, which he supposes the Temple treasury will not so dearly miss; a handful of loose leaves of his beloved _sapir_ tea. 

He waters his plants, too heavy to carry with him, murmuring a quick farewell to each. He makes his bed, folding the worn blanket neatly for its next owner. He empties his cabinets, leaving nothing behind, even dust. 

He realizes, eventually, that he is merely wasting time, waiting for Obi-Wan, for a reprieve, a word of forgiveness, of parting. 

None comes, and he cannot go looking for what he does not deserve.

He gives up, and he closes the door of his quarters, one last time. He leaves his lightsaber behind.

Tahl carries nothing at all.

He thinks of the countless cups of tea shared in her quarters, her hands curled gently, almost lovingly, around the delicate, pale blue china. 

She's already shaking her head, the thought still forming in his mind. "They belong to someone else."

Does she mean the Temple, or the Jedi Master she no longer is? It seems cruel to ask, and so he does not.

There is nothing else to keep them here, not anymore. There is surprisingly little ceremony to breaking a commitment more sacred than legal. They have made their choices, and they have left their wounds on those they love. But still, they linger, here in the place that raised them, sheltered them, taught them, made them who they are, even if, now, that means they can't stay.

They pause at the high steps of the Temple. This is it, now, the final cutting of the cord: the last time they will depart from these familiar halls, the last time they will call these high spires _home_. 

He fingers a strand of her hair, come loose from the knot at the back of her neck. "Are you ready?"

The struggle on her face mirrors his. They are both orphans, now, both rootless and untethered in this vast galaxy. For the first time in their lives, the future is entirely uncertain, empty and undecided. They have no purpose now but what they make. They have no reason but each other. 

"Are you?"

He tucks the soft curl behind her ear. He will be strong for her, he promises himself. He will not let her suffer, not allow her to worry, not give her any cause to regret her choices today. He will make her happy, keep her safe, if it takes every bone in his body, every drop of blood in his veins.

Her smile is wry, as though she knows what he thinking, and is thinking it, too. She leans in, her lips warm and soft, her touch making a home for him, unlike any he has ever known. In the warmth of her smile against his mouth, his hands resting against the curve of her neck, he remembers that he is not lost, and that he will never again be alone.

Everything, everything of their old lives is gone.

But everything, everything, awaits them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a happier chapter, girl scout's honor! we've offish reached part two of this fic, so obvs i had to make a new playlist. rip 8tracks or i'd post it for you.

They wind up at Dex's, sharing a booth and a hot cup of caf, trading private smiles here in this public place. It feels dizzily intimate, even though dressed in Jedi cloaks, barely touching, he doubts anyone could tell the difference.

To him, the difference is between Coruscant and Kashyyyk, between Tatooine and Mon Cala. 

"Where to now?" Underneath the sticky tabletop, Qui-Gon rubs circles in Tahl's palm with his thumb. The gesture feels wild, dangerous, as though they have stripped their clothes off in front of the entire cafe. "The beaches of Togoria, the jungles of Felucia, the mountains of Ando Prime?"

She sips sedately, the high color rising on her cheeks notwithstanding. "Given that we have about fifty credits between us, I think this is an instance of _think galactic, act local_."

"Hey!" a mellifluous voice rumbles. "My favorite Jedi!"

Tahl's gaze is somewhere past Dex's broad shoulder, but her smile is steady. "Your two favorite former Jedi, actually."

His golden eyes widen. It is difficult to startle Dex; Qui-Gon is oddly proud, and a little discomfited, to have managed it. "Is that so?"

"You see before you two private citizens," Qui-Gon confirms. 

It is easier to say it than he'd feared. Easier to bear than the lightness on his hip, the empty place where a lightsaber should hang. 

He lets his eyes rest on Tahl, on the secret, complicated joy in her green-gold eyes. Beneath the table, their fingers entwine. 

Dex's face softens. "Then the caf's on me!" he declares. 

Tahl's eyebrows lift, and he can feel her doing the mental math, adding the 1.5 credits back into their measly supply. 

Dex's smile is wide, but his eyes are a bit confused. Qui-Gon recognizes the feeling. "Where are you two crazy kids headed?"

"We were just discussing that," Qui-Gon admits. 

Dex scratches his wide, ridged head. "Do you have someplace to sleep tonight?"

Tahl's smile is wry. "I like to think we just don't have it _yet_."

"Dex!" Wanda yells from behind the Besalisk's broad shoulders, her programmed droid's voice somehow achieving human level of pique. "Are we still serving food here, or are we going out of business?"

Dex grins and holds up a thick finger. "Give me a sec," he promises. "I'll see what I can do."

The scent of fried nerfsteak hangs heavy in the air, but Qui-Gon can't imagine ever eating again. Everything is too new, too raw. 

He wonders, belatedly, if Tahl is hungry. Should he have asked? 

She shakes her head, smiling. "Qui, I'm not your..."

She stops, but he can hear the rest: _your Padawan_.

His guts clench. How is Obi-Wan? Has he eaten? Is he in the training rooms, working up a sweat against an enemy he can't fight? Are he and Bant together, or are they each bearing their burden alone?

Tahl sighs and brushes his cheek with her thumb. Qui-Gon can't help, peripherally, sneaking a glance around the diner; surely someone noticed? Surely someone is watching?

But the other diners seem occupied with their Shawda clubs and their own conversations, their own private lives. 

He relaxes and allows himself to smile into her touch. 

Dex's heavy, lumbering tread heralds his arrival. He squeezes into the booth beside Qui-Gon, the table bumping slightly at his girth. 

"A friend of one of my customers is off planet for the next few days," he says, almost smugly. 

Dex loves to have the answer. 

He holds up a keycard. "It's not fancy, but it's a roof over your heads."

"Are you sure your friend of a friend won't mind?" Tahl asks.

Dex spreads his hands, his smile sly. "Not if you're out before he comes back."

Tahl laughs, her unexpected mirth a balm to his wounds, a breath of fresh air after days underground.

Qui-Gon would sleep anywhere, he thinks, to make her laugh like that.

* * *

Tahl makes her way through the simple room, finding her own way in the space. Qui-Gon stays back, out of her way. 

She touches the dingy sheets of the single bed, the faucets of the cramped fresher. She opens the tiny refrigerator unit, the room's single, cloudy window. 

She deserves better than a borrowed room in a CoCo Town flophouse. In another life, he is bringing her to white sheets, Mysess blossoms scattered over the bed, Daruvvian champagne. 

In this life, under burned-out florescents, a drunken Sabacc game echoing through thin walls, she reaches out her hand, and he draws her to him, where they both belong.

His touch is soft and unhurried. There is no one waiting, no one worrying, no one to disturb or disappoint.

There is only the two of them, from this day forth.

He lowers her onto the bed, laughing with her as they discover it is too short for a tall human, and too narrow for two of them. 

"We'll manage," she promises, and he makes a sound of agreement as he kisses his way down her neck. 

Her touch grounds him, brings him home on this first night, on these stranger's sheets.

Someday, he promises silently, the bed they share will be theirs.

Her fingers delicately work to unwrap his tunics, and he wonders if this will be the last time they take off their Jedi clothes like this, if next time they will already be dressed as the new people they are now becoming.

But then her tunics are off, and he finds that such questions are best left to the philosophers, after all.

He drifts off, at last, anchored by her soft breathing, her head on his chest, her legs entwined with his.

For the first morning in his life, he has no where to be but where he is.


End file.
